


Faint of Heart

by pikasafire



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Community: bandombigbang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikasafire/pseuds/pikasafire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ridiculous pathology!AU</p><p>In autopsy, it is not a matter of life and death, it's a matter of DEATH AND LOVE! Frank Iero, the new registrar in the mortuary at Mercy hospital, was not expecting autopsy to be sexy, but he also wasn't expecting his hot new boss, Gerard Way. Featuring Cobra Funerals, sap, death by papercuts and LIFE THREATENING SITUATIONS (that don't necessarily involve corpses).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faint of Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For bandombigbang 2011.
> 
> Huge thanks to bootson and auctorial for putting up with me talking about this for the last YEAR and beta duties! Love to masterpenguin82 and barefoot_starz too for listening to me moan and reading through <3

The morgue is fucking impossible to find. Level two, which is actually ground level on the north side and basement level on the south, through two more closed doors and next to _linen_ of all fucking places.

Frank sighs, and stares at the grey doors marked with a tiny gold plaque ‘Hospital Mortuary. Mortuary Manager: Dr. Gerard Way. Opening hours: 8am-10pm Mon-Fri’

He shuffles his feet and presses the intercom.

“Yeah?” A static voice on the other end.

“Hi. It’s Frank... Iero. I’m, uh, the new registrar?”

“Push the door.” There’s a metallic click as the door releases and Frank steps in, waiting for the door to lock behind him. He’s been in morgues before, kind of part and parcel of the whole medical degree and residency, but they’ve never been his favourite place - how he got stuck with fucking mortuary duties in his first week as a registrar is beyond him, least it’s only a week a month.

He walks down the hall, past closed doors, offices, and the viewing room, and stops in front of a second set of heavy grey doors. Jesus. How much security does a mortuary need? It’s not like any of their patients are in danger of escaping. Y’know, unless they’re vampires. Or zombies. He presses the second intercom on the wall with a sigh.

“Oh, fuck! sorry!” There’s silence, then the doors open, “Gee forgot to open them again after the last viewing. Sorry. Come in. You don’t have keys yet?” The guy turns, leading him to an office and Frank follows, eyes wide. It’s like stepping into a whole new place - the office is cluttered; there’s a table covered in CD’s, coffee cups and paper, computers, and what appears to be a half finished game of Magic: The Gathering. A _Night Of The Living Dead_ poster decorates one of the walls and Frank relaxes a little, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Take a seat,” The guy says, pushing his glasses back up his nose, “Gerard’s in autopsy with Ray.” he stops, “I’m Mikey.” He turns back to his computer, waves a vague hand. “Or you can have a poke around. Feel free to have a look in autopsy,” he thinks about it for a second, “Uh, go through the scrubs room, through the bathroom there. Wear rubber boots. Ray’s in there too, so you should be fine, but seriously, wear them anyway. Trust me.”

Frank’s not sure what to make of that, but takes a seat instead, feeling out of place, “Uh. I might just stay here until they’re done.”

Mikey shrugs, “suit yourself. There’s coffee in the break room.”

“Uh. Okay. Um, want anything?”

“Coffee.”

Frank searches around until he finds the mugs under the sink, coffee in a weird canister with zombies scrawled in sharpie over the white ceramic. “Um, sugar?” Frank calls through the doorway.

“Next to the brain jar.” A voice comes from behind him, and Frank jumps as a bloody hand reaches past him for the canister above his head; next to what appears to be a pickled brain in a jar.

“Holy fuck, you scared the shit out of me!” Frank jumps, whirling to stare at the guy behind him who’s in scrubs splattered with blood, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and now leaving red smears all over the white ceramic sugar container.

“Clean room, Gerard.” Mikey sighs, coming in from the office and plucking the bloody canister out of the guy’s hands, “oh my God, you’re disgusting. Go shower.”

“Your _face_ is disgusting.”

“Your _mom_ is.” Mikey shoots back and Gerard gives him a dirty look.

“Mikeeeey. I want coffeeeeeeee.”

“I promise you can have coffee. When you no longer look like an extra from Saw.”

“Fun-killer.”

“Body-mangler.”

Gerard sighs dramatically, but leaves the room, swearing under his breath. Mikey stares at the canister in his hands with distaste. “Ugh, that’s disgusting,” he mutters, checking to make sure the lid is closed before shoving the whole container under the tap. “I swear he’s trying to give me some sort of horrible disease. Gross fucker.”

Frank doesn’t have a chance to reply before a guy with an alarming amount of hair pokes his head through the door, “Hey, you catch Gerard before he got in?”

“Not before he touched things. Ugh.”

Frank just stares, nudged out of the way as Mikey searches under the sink for some more mugs. “Uh, that was Doctor Way?”

“If you’re talking about the blood smeared idiot, yes. That’s Gerard. The other one, with the hair?” He gestures around his head, “That’s Ray.”

Frank’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to reply to that. Well, at least it doesn’t seem like he’ll be bored while he’s here.

*

“Frank?” Gerard pops his head around the door of the office, “You got a moment?”

“Uh. Sure, yeah.” He’s sorting through the death certificates for the past week, idly reading the causes of death. Morbid maybe, but he’s really fucking bored, and Mikey’s doing some complicated thing on the computer that looks a lot like World of Warcraft. Frank’s not sure if he should be pretending not to notice.

Gerard grins at him, waves a hand for Frank to follow.

“Don’t get attacked by anything in his office,” Mikey calls after him, without taking his eyes from the screen. “Seriously!”

“Fuck you, Mikeyway. Do some fucking work!” Gerard shouts back, “He’s totally exaggerating,” Gerard assures Frank as he opens the door to his office. He stops in the doorway, runs a hand through his dirty hair. “Well, mostly...” The office looks a bit like a million filing cabinets have vomited over it, files and papers and precarious stacks of boxes all over the place. Gerard follows a narrow path between papers, to sit down on the other side of the desk in the middle, nudging a huge, piled stack of files to the side. “Sorry about the mess. I, uh. Hate filing.” He stares at Frank expectantly. “So? What’s the plan?”

“Um- plan?” Frank’s not entirely sure what he should be saying, as he shifts a pile of papers from the chair and sits down, fidgeting under Gerard’s earnest stare. “What, uh, exactly do I do here? This is my first registrar placement, so...” he trails off, hoping for Gerard to fill in the blank.

“Sign things, mostly. Death certificates need eighteen million signatures. Learn autopsy. You’ll have seen a few already, right? But, you’ll learn to do them yourself. We don’t have too many of them down here anymore.” He looks disappointed. “We broke two of the tables and they won’t replace them until next year, so forensics takes most of the autopsies, or they get sent to the coroner’s office. All the interesting ones anyway. We get them if they’re swamped. Or if it’s routine.” He brightens, “we do get the contagious ones, though!”

Frank should not find it as nearly as charming as he does, and he nods wordlessly. What the fuck do you say to something like that? “Uh, so in the meantime?”

Gerard just grins at him, “D’you know how to play Magic: The Gathering?”

*

Frank isn’t really expecting to have an autopsy on his second day, but Gerard grins at him from the door of the office, scrubs already bloodied (Ignoring Mikey’s “ _Clean room_ , Gerard! Oh my _God_ ”) and asks if he wants to watch. Frank’s screwed, the ‘yes’ tripping off his tongue and falling out of his mouth before he’s even thought about it.

Gerard takes him to the scrubs room, “Here.” He tosses Frank a handful of clothing. “You’re smaller than I am, so you’ll have to wear the girls scrubs. Least they’re a _nice_ purple.” He looks at Frank expectantly and Frank flushes as he realises he’s supposed to change right away, with Gerard _watching_. Frank’s never been self-conscious about his body but he can’t help but feel uncomfortable, turning his back to strip off his shirt and pants, trying really hard not to think about getting naked in the scrubs room with his ridiculously attractive boss.

“Cool tattoos.” Gerard says to break the awkward silence.

“Um. Thanks. You got any?” He turns around in time to see Gerard shudder, even as his eyes follow the lines of ink across Frank’s forearms and the birds on his stomach.

“God, no. Hate needles.” Gerard tosses Frank a pair of gumboots, averting his eyes as Frank tugs the shirt over his head. “Um, here. Keep them in a cubby, they’ll be yours now. Clothes can go in there too. Um, not the scrubs, they go in the basket in the autopsy room when we’re done.” He gives an awkward smile, “You ready?”

Ray’s in autopsy too, his ridiculous hair tied back into the largest, fluffiest ponytail Frank’s ever seen, the cadaver already prepped and open on the table in front of him, “Hey Frank,” he says, waving at him with the bloodied scalpel in his hand, “Just here to watch?”

“Yeah.”

Ray grins, “Forget that,” he inclines his head toward a tray of scalpels and knives next to him. “Pick one, I’ll hand you the stuff to weigh, alright? Got a favourite organ?”

“Lungs?”

“Awesome. That’s mine too!”

Autopsy is not really physically taxing, but by the time the last suture is stitched a few hours later Frank’s exhausted, his brain full of information that he needs to remember. He grins over at where Gerard’s standing, his apron smeared with bloody hand prints, the bench next to him smeared with tissues and blood. He looks like an extra from a slasher flick.

“You look like you belong in a horror movie.” Frank says, his brain too tired to keep up with his brain to mouth filter.

Gerard turns, a giant grin on his face as he holds out his arms and looks down at himself critically, “You think so?” He asks, like it’s the biggest compliment Frank could give him.

“Like you just walked off the set of Psycho.”

“Thanks!” Gerard beams, and Frank feels his stomach swoop. Oh yeah, he’s _so_ screwed. Just five more days. He can get through it without accidentally molesting his boss, right?

*

Frank is somewhat disconcerted to discover a freezer in the hallway with ‘Limbs an’ Stuff’ scrawled across it in Sharpie, pictures of sad looking dismembered zombies underneath.

“Mikey?”

“Mm?” He says, not turning from inspecting the chart in his hands.

“What’s this?”

“Limbs an’ stuff,” Mikey says, like that explains everything. Frank’s not entirely sure how he should respond to that, but turns his attention to the huge whiteboard Mikey’s writing on, just outside the body fridge. “This is to keep track of who’s where,” Mikey says before Frank can ask. “If it’s got a tick, the body’s ready to be be collected by the funeral home.” There’s a loud obnoxious buzz by the door. “Like now.” He gives Frank a grin, “Should be Cobra Funerals, wanna see?”

“Alright,” Frank says. There’s not really anything else to do. He follows Mikey into the office where he picks up the receiver, pressing the little green button at the bottom of the intercom. The little video screen shows a lurid purple van, a man leaning against the wall in an equally horrendous purple hoodie.

“Mortuary.” Mikey says, deadpan, though Frank can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Mikeyway! My brother! I’ve come to collect that date of mine!”

“Push the door,” Mikey says, rolling his eyes, pressing another button until Frank hears a click, and the sound of the back doors being pushed open. Mikey gives Frank a smile, “This’ll be an experience for you.” He says, heading out to greet the funeral directors.

There’s three of them, all dressed in an eye-bleeding purple, ” _Party at the End of your Life”_ scrawled across their hoodies.

“Hey Gabe,” Mikey says, pulling on some latex gloves, “Who d’you want this time?”

“Always you, Mikeyway.” Gabe throws an arm around Mikey’s shoulder, pulls him in close before catching sight of Frank out of the corner of his eye, “Or maybe this one?” He says, eyeing Frank like a piece of meat. “Are you doing specials today? I’ll take this one, I think.” He pulls some papers out of his pocket. “I’ll take Jameson, Adams and Ingram, too.” He passes them over, as he wraps an arm around Frank at the same time, “I’m gonna become acquainted with my new purchase.”

Mikey rolls his eyes, “Frank, wanna give me a hand?”

“Hell yes,” Frank says, untangling himself from Gabe’s octopus limbs.

“I’m hurt,” Gabe says, trying to look gleeful and pained at the same time. Mostly, he just looks demented.

“Alright,” Mikey says, checking the board, “we need five, three and one.” He heads inside the fridge, pulling the first trolley out of the bay and unzipping the bag. “Ingram?”

Frank checks the bracelet around the wrist, the feel of the skin is cold and doughy underneath his fingers. “Yeah.”

“Jewellery? Injuries?”

“Nope. Not even a wedding ring.” Frank pauses with a frown, “Wait, injuries?”

“Y’know,” Mikey says, loud enough so Gabe can hear from where he’s loitering by the body fridge door, “just in case Gabe drops the body on it’s head and says that was how he received it.”

“I would never, Mikeyway.” Gabe objects, hand over his heart. Mikey grins, zips the bag back up and pushes the trolley toward the door.

“All yours, Gabe,” Mikey says, “Enjoy your date. She’s a good one.”

Gabe unzips the top of the bag, peeks inside, “Oh, we’ll have a killer time,” he laughs at his own pun, “It’ll be magical.” He pushes the trolley to the doors, helping load it into the van as Mikey and Frank retrieve the other bodies.

“He’s joking right?” Frank says after a moment.

“We think so. Most of the time. I try not to ask.” Mikey laughs at the horrified look on Frank’s face. “We figure if he appears in the newspaper, we can deny all knowledge that way.”

Frank stands by the doors, waits for Gabe to load the others and sign the release papers with a flourish. Gabe climbs into the van with a salute before tearing out of parking lot with a screech and Frank winces at the jolts the bodies in the back must be receiving.

“Is he always like that?”

Mikey looks surprised at the question, “Gabe? Usually he’s worse.”

*

Frank has his first autopsy the the next day. He can’t help the panicked roiling in his stomach, the way his body feels too tight, like the fear is taking up all the space under his skin. He’s going to fuck it up. He’ll forget where the lungs are, he’ll accidentally sever the abdominal organs while opening the body. He’ll screw up the removal of the subcutaneous tissues from the ribs, and buttonhole the skin, leaving the body looking like a deformed Frankenstein. He’s well on his way to working up a good panic attack when Gerard sticks his head around the door of the office.

“Ready?” Gerard asks, smiling at him from the doorway.

Frank wants so badly to say no, but he nods, following Gerard to the scrub room, carefully averting his eyes as they change. If his eyes stray a little, catching a glimpse of pale, pale skin, Frank blames it on the nerves. Not like it’s helping with those or anything. There’s a gown that goes over the scrubs, a plastic apron over that, two layers of gloves, a face mask and protective glasses and Frank feels a little silly, fumbling with the ties of his face mask. “Is this all necessary? I mean, I’m pretty sure we didn’t wear all this in residency. Or yesterday.”

“You’re doing this _properly_ ” Gerard protests, batting Frank’s hands away and tying his mask for him, fingers brushing the back of Frank’s neck. “Besides, it’s your first on your own, right? It’s gonna be messy.” He considers this, “Well, they’re always messy. Unless you’re Ray. I don’t know how he does it.” He pulls his hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, tying it deftly with a pink hairband. “Anyway,” he points to the body Mikey’s set up on the table for them. “Body. Table.” He gestures underneath, “pedal on the left lifts the table higher or lower, right one tilts the table towards the head or feet.” He flicks a switch, “this is the... air flow sucking thing. It’s new. And it’s a bit broken, so try not to smell it. Stuff’s fallen down there.”

Frank stares at him, horrified.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Someone’s coming to fix it next week.” He walks over to the bench, “Okay, knives, cutting board, scales, whiteboard. Don’t touch the markers with bloody gloves and don’t stick them in your mouth, obviously. Uh. Bonesaw. I use this one,” he holds up one that looks like it’s about to fall apart, “We have a new one, but I keep over-cutting the skull and then the people at the Brain Bank get pissed. And, um, everything else is here.” Gerard gestures vaguely to a trolley of surgical instruments. “Okay?” He picks up a scalpel “Oh, wait, this is Joseph.”

Frank blinks, confused. Who names their _scalpel_?

“I mean, the body,” Gerard says, “Oh. File’s there.” He gestures with the hand that isn’t holding the scalpel. “But Mikey’s given me the run down. It’s pretty routine. Um. Joseph is 87 and a nursing home resident. Had a cough for six months, complained of shortness of breath. Stopped breathing,” Gerard shrugs, “ended up here. Probably emphysema, but there’s compulsory autopsies for nursing home residents.” He makes a face, steps closer to the body, scalpel in hand, “fucking hate fresh bodies. They’re still warm and I’m always worried one day I’ll cut into someone who’s still alive.”

“They _check_ that shit, don’t they.”

“What? Oh, yeah. Of course. Just paranoia.” Gerard grins at him. Frank wonders petulantly why _Gerard_ doesn’t have to wear a mask. “External examination if you please, Dr. Iero.”

Frank picks up the chart and pen, conducting a cursory examination of the body as Gerard watches, making sure he doesn’t miss anything. Frank circles the diagram of the man on the chart, arrows pointing to any injuries or scars, with short explanations.

“Done?” Gerard asks, when Frank sets the chart to the side. He waits for Frank to nod and then he’s bent over the body, making the first incision, and Frank gives himself a mental shake, picking up his own scalpel and taking a deep breath. He’s done dissections before, a whole body isn’t much different.

Gerard talks quietly as they work, scalpel cutting either side of the bellybutton, swapping scalpel for scissors for the abdominal cavity before preparing to remove the skin from the rib bones. It’s tedious work, preparing the body. He talks about inconsequential things mostly; the movie he and Mikey had watched on the weekend, the bowling team Gerard designed shirts for, his art. The creepy house he and Mikey live in.

“So, you and Mikey?” Frank asks lightly. Eyes carefully focused on the mass of organs. they’re exposing, placing the sternum to the side, he runs his hands carefully over the pleural surfaces of the lungs, trying to focus on identifying any abnormalities, even as he can feel his heart beat a little faster in nervous anticipation of Gerard’s answer.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. It’s pretty good. He drives me mental, but,” Gerard laughs a little, “you know how it is. He puts up with me. We get along, most of the time.”

Frank is glad for the mask that covers most of his expression. He knew Gerard would be taken, he _knew_ it. Not that it mattered. Boss. Employee. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, but Frank can’t help the way he feels as though his stomach is sinking to his toes. “Yeah,” he says instead, forced levity in his voice, “I know what you mean.”

There’s a silence as Frank watches Gerard opens up the pericardium, examining the cavity. Gerard pauses long enough to hold out a series of needles and syringes, “D’you mind doing the fluid collection?” Gerard asks, looking queasy even thinking about it. “I’m really, _really_ not good with needles.” He gestures to the abdomen, “just straight through into the bladder. Just need a sample.”

They work quietly, the occasional movie quote or comment bantered between them . Frank’s absorbed in the kidney he’s cutting from the connective tissue, placing it gently in the scales and scribbling the weight on the whiteboard.

“Markers!” Gerard exclaims suddenly, close to Frank’s ear and Frank jumps, his scalpel and the marker skittering across the floor the a clatter.

“Holy _shit_ , don’t scare me like that!” Frank scowls.

“ _Marker_ ,” Gerard says again, “Remember, I told you. Dude, you can’t touch it with bloody gloves. Contamination.”

“Oh. _Fuck_ , sorry. Sorry, I forgot.” Frank feels his stomach sink to his toes, his face flushing. What a stupid fucking rookie mistake.

Gerard smiles, picking up the marker and tossing it in the contamination bin, “S’okay. I’m pretty sure the hospital can afford more markers. Just, be careful. If you forgot you touched it and put it back and, like, Mikey used it without gloves and had a cut-” he shrugs, “It’s pretty unlikely, but, y’know. Contamination and shit. If you gave him hepatitis or something, I’d have to kill you.”

“Yeah. That’s fair,” Frank forces a smile, feeling like an idiot. “Um, okay. So, what now?”

“Finished weighing the kidneys?”

“Yeah.”

“Slice and dice ‘em. Don’t forget the samples for the microscope slides.”

Frank nods wordlessly, reaching for the glass slides to the side, putting them in easy reach before reaching to pull the kidney back on the cutting board, trying to ignore the way Gerard’s standing just to the side, watching him work. Frank reaches for a scalpel blade, taking a deep breath.

“Try this one instead,” Gerard says quietly, moving a little closer to hand him something that looks like it belongs in a kitchen. “Chef’s paring knife,” Gerard says with a shrug, “Ray also uses pruning sheers instead of rib cutters. Cheaper. Easier to use. You can cut easier and faster with a proper knife.”

Frank accepts the knife with a murmured thanks, trying to stop his hand from shaking and makes a decisive incision quickly down the centre. He reminds himself that it’s like cooking, really. Making sure your cuts are clean, but Gerard’s presence makes him nervous. He makes another slice too quickly, crooked and too thick and Gerard grabs his hand.

“Careful,” he admonishes and he shifts closer, standing behind him, placing his hand over Frank’s and adjusting his grip. “You can go slower. Make smaller cuts. Remember what you’re doing - you’re not going to be able to check for inconsistencies if you’re cutting it like a steak.” Gerard’s breath is warm against the back of Frank’s neck and his proximity isn’t doing anything for his nerves, but he nods. He can’t screw this up, he _can’t_. It shouldn’t be so difficult, he’s done dissections a million fucking times. He takes a breath and cuts carefully, placing the knife gently to the side when he’s done, trying desperately to keep him mind on the incredibly _unattractive_ liver in front of him and not his incredibly attractive boss who’s pressed up behind him.

“Now spread them.”

Frank flushes. Gerard did _not_ just say what he thinks he said. “Uh. What?”

“On the board, spread the pieces out.” Gerard waits until Frank’s done so, “See anything wrong? Blood clots? Bruising?”

Frank looks, turns the pieces over carefully. “There’s a small lesion on the right side. um, some slight discolouring?”

“Good.” Gerard taps his hip, “Mark it down in the notes. Take samples.” He moves away, gives Frank an encouraging smile, “You’re doing really well, Frankie.”

It takes them another two hours to finish with the main dissection, piling the organs into the chest cavity in a bag and gently placing the rib cage back on top. “It keep the ribs in place that way,’ Gerard murmurs as he pulls the skin back together with large, messy stitches. “Otherwise the ribs will move and puncture the skin on the sides of the body.”

Frank just nods, watching him work. “Finished now?”

“Almost. Saved the best to last,” Gerard looks up at him with a grin, and Frank feels his stomach flip a little. So fucking ridiculous. There is no way he should find someone, hunched over a body and covered in blood, so attractive. There must be something wrong with him.

The brain isn’t hard to remove, but Frank can’t help the way his ears roar a little, the dizzy, weightless feeling in his body as he watches Gerard stick his scalpel under the small incision he’s made across the top of the head, ear to ear, cutting slowly and gently to avoid tearing the skin. “You’re supposed to do the whole head with the scalpel,” Gerard says, sticking his finger between skull and skin, pulling up the little flap, “But, if you can just get a bit of a grip-” he places his scalpel to the side, grasping the skin and lifts Joseph’s head by the flaps, shaking roughly, “it’ll just peel off. It’s so much quicker.” The skin peels a little, revealing the bone white of the skull. Joseph’s head rolls from ride to side, his neck flopping about. “See!” He turns to grin at Frank triumphantly. “Y’alright, Frank?” Gerard pauses from where he’s shaking the corpses’ head, the skin peeling slowly from the scalp to rest against Joseph’s face.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘m good.” Frank’s not entirely sure he’s not going to pass out. Oh, that would be pathetic. He takes a big breath, concentrates on the silver of the autopsy table, the way the fluorescent lights reflect on the metal. Autopsy is so much easier when you can forget they’re actually people.

“Want me to get Mikey? You’re looking really pale.”

“No, no. I’m good.” Frank does not need to humiliate himself more than he already has.

“Maybe you should just watch this part.” Gerard smiles at him, “I totally passed out the first, like, five autopsies I sat in on. And I puked the first time I had to perform one. So, y’know, you’re ahead of the curve here.”

Gerard turns to the bone saw, the high pitched whine of the saw thankfully preventing Frank from having to answer. How humiliating. Gerard works quickly, prying the brain out of the skull carefully and carrying it to the counter on the side. He gestures for Frank to come see, murmuring explanations quietly as they organise to place one half of it in a fixing solution, and slice the other half into cross-sections to be frozen in dry ice for delivery to the brain bank.

It’s another hour before Gerard makes the last stitch in the skull, ruffling Joseph’s hair a little so it covers the sutures. “Thank fuck, that’s done,” Gerard groans, stretching his arms above his head and Frank resolutely does not stare at the little sliver of skin that’s revealed, busying himself with piling all the knives and cutting boards into the sink.

“C’mon Frank. We’re done here.”

Frank looks around the autopsy bay. There’s blood on everything, smeared across the floor, their scrubs and every implement in the bay - used or not. There’s an misplaced piece of liver still on the side of one of the counters and Joseph lies in the middle, a bloody hand-print on his skin. “Shouldn’t we clean up?”

Gerard waves a dismissive hand. “Mikey’ll do it.”

Frank’s not so sure. “Um-”

“I promise. That’s what Mikey _does_.”

“I thought he was a nurse?”

“He is. He assists sometimes if we’re short handed. He looks after the med students when they come in, because there’s always a few fainters. He’s … well, everything really. He does the stuff we don’t.” Gerard gestures for Frank to follow him back into the scrub room. Gerard bypasses his clothes, heading out in bloody scrubs while Frank changes quickly back into his day clothes, grinning as he hears Mikey’s anguished, “ _Clean room_ , Gerard!” from the office.

Frank’s pretty sure he could get used to working here.

*

Frank eyes the nameplate on the door, a shiny _Dr. Gerard Way, Mortuary Manager_ and taps on the door, taking a breath and pausing a second before opening it. “Hi, I just- yoooou’re not Dr. Way.”

Ray just grins. “Nope,” he agrees, “Were you after a signature or something else?”

“Uh, timesheet.” Frank says awkwardly, waving the piece of paper in demonstration.

Ray holds out his hand and Frank passes it over, his reluctance obvious. Ray grins. “Don’t give anything to Gerard. Seriously. Ever. Not if you actually want it done, or you want to get paid, or whatever. Just leave it all in the basket outside the door and I’ll do it.”

“But-” Frank says, feeling a little defensive for Gerard’s sake, “He’s the manager, right?”

A laugh comes from behind him and Frank turns as Mikey enters with a stack of papers that he dumps in a disorganised pile on Ray’s desk. “Only in name. Ray’s technically manager, but Gerard goes to all the meetings and draws, like, zombie unicorns all over his notes and people are too scared of him to come down here, so,” he shrugs, “we get left alone, mostly.”

“Does he know?”

“That he freaks people out? Or that Ray does all the paperwork?”

“Um. Both?”

“Probably. He hates that shit, and he does it all wrong anyway.”

“Oh.” Frank’s not sure how he should feel about it, but he drops his timesheet on top of the papers on Ray’s desk anyway, feigning indifference, “So, uh, Gerard’s office is out the back right?” As if he didn’t know already.

“Yup, same as yesterday.” Mikey grins and Frank is overly aware that he’s being mocked. “He took over one of the labs for it. I think you’ll be able to find it.”

Feeling his cheeks flush, Frank sidles out. “Yeah. I’ll go... do that.”

“Yeah. You do that.” It’s definitely a smirk, and Frank knows he’s not imagining the snickering as he closes the door behind him. Oh God, _everyone_ knows and it’s only his first week. He’s not even half way down the corridor before Ray’s door opens again, “Wait, Frank. Come back. Pete just called, he’s on his way.” Ray pauses and Frank tries not to read too much into it, when he adds, “He wants a quick word.”

Frank’s heard that before. It never bodes well. It brings back memories of juvenile delinquency while he’s perched on the edge of the seat across from Ray. Just like every time he was summoned to the Principal's office in school. Frank’s met Pete before in passing, but he’s never really had a conversation with him, so it’s surprising when Pete barges in, claps Frank on the shoulder like they’re old buddies and shoves Ray’s papers to the side so he can perch himself on the edge of Ray’s desk, heedless of the chair next to it.

“Hi guys,” he says cheerfully. He turns to Ray. “Where’s Gerard?”

“Already spoke to him this morning.” Ray shrugs, “He said it’s all good and then begged me not to make him sit in a meeting. It’s not like he’d listen anyway.”

“Point. Though, I’m not sure if I should be offended that he considers talking to me a meeting. Promise I’ll be quick. Frank, there’s been a slight change with the registrar roster.”

“Uh, a change?”

“Usually, you’re only here for about a week every month, right?” Frank nods. “Well, they’re changing the system, so you’re going to be _just_ here for the next four months.”

“Four _months_?”

“Yeah. Like an intensive training rather than being shuttled all over the place. Four months here with Dr. Way, then four months in the labs with Dr. Stump, then the last four in Surgical Pathology with me. Then you transfer across to... St. Andrew’s Hospital, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“The last round of registrars were complaining that doing it on a weekly rotation was confusing. So, it’s been changed this time around. This is your first placement?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome. So it won’t be as confusing. We’ll give you a desk down here, since you’ll be based here now. So! Now that’s all sorted, I’m gonna go harass your pretty nurse for a while.”

“I heard that, Pete!” Mikey calls from just outside the office.

Pete grins, gives Frank a wink as he walks out, “But, Mikeyway, you would look _so good_ in those little dresses.”

“I’ve kicked you in the balls before, Pete, and I’ll do it again.”

Frank just stares. Four months on mortuary duty with a boss he is far, _far_ too attracted to? His life _sucks_.

Ray runs a hand through his frankly alarming mop of hair, “So. Uh. Frank, we weren’t really prepared for a full time registrar, so you’ll have to share an office with Gerard. That okay?” He gestures for Frank to follow him, heading out into the corridor.

“Yeah, yeah.” Frank cringes a little inwardly, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. “I mean, if there’s enough room.”

“That room Gerard’s taken over isn’t even supposed to _be_ an office. It’s a laboratory, but he kind of... moved in and now it’s too hard to move him out. But, there’s plenty of room. You know, once you get rid of all the paperwork he’s refusing to do.” He pushes open the door to Gerard’s office, “Gee, Pete says Frank needs some space, so you’re gonna have to clean this room up so we can fit in another desk.”

“Hi Frank.” Gerard says cheerfully, before the rest of his brain seems to catch up with what Ray’s said and his face falls, “Clean?” Gerard looks forlornly at the stacks of files that clutter the counters and tables, “Can’t you get one of the med students to... do some filing or something?”

“They’re med students, Gerard, not admin. Make Mikey do it.”

“But- he _won’t_.”

“Then _you’ll_ have to do it, won’t you?”

Gerard sighs, long-suffering. “But I fucking hate paperwork.”

“I’ll help.” Frank find himself volunteering, and Ray makes an amused noise behind him, quickly smothered by a cough.The bright grin he gets from Gerard for his offer is worth the mocking he’ll probably get later.

“Really? I’ll buy you coffee,” Gerard offers, giving Frank the most pathetic look Frank’s ever seen on a grown man, ever.

“Sure,” Frank says, feeling his face flush a little. He steps in the room a little further. “Any particular place we should start?”

Gerard stands in the middle of the mess, looking lost and Frank tries not to find it really fucking cute.

“Ooookay,” Frank picks up the stack closest to him, gives it a cursory flick through. “Gerard, some of these files are from _years_ ago.”

“I know.” Gerard sighs, “They’re just, ugh. It’s effort, you know? Like, there’s the reports and the databases and then I keep forgetting to send them back to records and then I forget if I’ve _done_ the reports for the autopsy and so I hang on to them and-” he throws his hands up in the air, “it’s all too fucking hard.” He stares around the office, “One day one of these stacks is going to fall on me and kill me and won’t _that_ be ironic. Pathologist, killed by autopsy paperwork.”

“Come on, I’ll get a cart, you start gathering files.”

Ray just snorts, “Have fun, guys,” he says, giving Frank a wave. “Try not to injure yourselves, I don’t want to have to fill in the paperwork for that either.”

Cart collected, Frank and Gerard stand at the doorway, surveying the paper explosion that is Gerard’s office and Frank takes a breath, “Alright. Let’s assume any files older than six months have been dealt with, since Ray hasn’t killed you yet, so they can all go in the return pile, alright? Anything that’s Mikey’s thing, like, death certificates and copies can go on the table and everything that’s yours on your desk, alright?”

They work in silence for a few minutes before the quiet gets to Frank.“So, uh. How long have you been here?”

Gerard shrugs, opens another file, “This is from fucking 1998, why the fuck is this here? I wasn’t even out of med school at that point.” He tosses it in the return pile, “Uh, about five years? Me and Ray started here at the same time. Then Ray realised I suck at admin, so Pete let me hire Mikey. I might be biased, but Mikey’s _good_ at that shit. Plus, y’know, Pete wanted in his pants” he shudders, “I try not to think about that part too much.”

Frank blinks. “Mikey’s your... boyfriend?” he asks, trying to ask casually and failing completely.

“Brother,” Gerard corrects absently, flicking through another file. Then Frank’s words seem to catch up with him and he stops, staring at Frank in horror, “Did you just say _boyfriend_?”

“Uh-’ he scrambles for damage control, something, _anything_ to say.

“ _Boyfriend_?!” Gerard repeats, voice high enough Frank’s pretty sure only dogs can hear it.

“You have the same last name!” Frank protests, and whoa, totally not what he intended to say.

Gerard just stares at him, eyes wide, gaping like a fish out of water, “Yeah, because we’re _brothers_ , oh my _God_. _Ew_.”

“Oh God.” Frank groans, giving up on pretending he isn’t fucking _mortified_. “I’m so sorry, I just - I.” He searches for the magic words that will fix this, or make the earth swallow him whole, letting his head thunk onto the desk. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re not going to tell Mikey about this?”

“No fucking way.” Gerard says, but he’s laughing now, “Oh my God, I can’t believe you even-”

“I’ll stop filing if you tell him.” Frank threatens.

Gerard grins, leans over and pokes Frank in the forehead, “No you won’t.”

“Really? You think so?” It’s not much of a challenge, since they both know Frank won’t, but he feels like he has to put up some sort of fight for the horrendous mocking he’s now going to have to endure. _Brothers_?! What the actual _fuck_?

“Do you really want me to be killed by piles of paperwork? Death by a million paper-cuts? That’s cold, Frank. Real cold.”

Frank valiantly stays silents, even though he’s pretty sure his face is flaming red now, practically on fire, his skin is so hot.

Gerard’s still giggling, “I mean- _really_. What the hell makes people _think_ that?”

Death by a million paper-cuts is seeming like a pretty good option, Frank thinks forlornly, surveying the huge piles of paperwork still strewn about the office. Oh God, he’s going to be in here forever, with Gerard _mocking_ him. His cute boss, who Frank just accused of dating his _brother_. Yep, that’s it, Frank is going to prove everyone wrong and actually die of mortification.

*

No matter how much Frank tries to will it to happen, he gets through the next three hours without the files spontaneously combusting and setting him on fire. Or there being a sudden alien invasion. Or zombie apocalypse. Gerard giggles to himself every ten minutes or so while Frank tries to make him forget what happened by distracting him with stories of Catholic school. They have three semi-neat, giant sized piles by the end of it, but Frank’s pretty sure he’ll actually explode if he has to stay in close quarters with Gerard for any longer.

Apparently Frank needs to work on his magical powers of making people forget stupid shit he said because Mikey’s grinning ear to ear when Frank emerges from the office, “Did you really think Gerard was my _boyfriend_?” Mikey says, looking like all his Christmases have just come at once. “Like, really? Actually?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank groans, flopping into a desk chair and letting his head fall to the desk with a thud. He’s going to give himself concussion by the end of the day, “I’ve humiliated myself enough for one day, alright?”

“Dude, he _likes_ you. How did you miss that?”

Frank rolls his head to the side a little so he can glare at Mikey from the corner of his eye without having to lift his flaming face from the desk, “I’m pretty sure I told you to shut the fuck up. How’d you miss _that_?” He mimics, closing his eyes. If he tries hard enough, he’s pretty sure he can become part of the wood.

“Hey Frank,” Frank hears Ray pop his head around the corner, “Did you _really_ think-”

“Oh my God, I hate you all.” Frank groans, “That’s it, I quit.”

“You realise that my brother actually likes you, right?” Mikey says again, “As in ‘like-likes’ you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Frank tells the desk. He’s not moving until his face starts to resemble actual skin colour again and not a tomato.

“No, really.” Mikey insists, poking Frank in the side of the head.

“What? Did he say something to you?” Frank tries not to sound pathetic, but he’s pretty sure he’s failing. “Oh God, don’t answer that. Let me die of embarrassment in peace.”

Mikey mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “Oh my God, _losers_.” But Frank gallantly ignores him. Maybe everyone will have forgotten about it by tomorrow. He can hope, right?

*

A few days later Gerard decides that Frank _needs_ to know how to play _Magic: The Gathering_.

“Alright, so you want to summon this one? So, you look up the top right, see it has a picture of a tree and a number? Since this has a tree and a three, you have to tap one forest and three other Mana.” Gerard murmurs into Frank’s ear, quietly enough so Ray and Mikey can’t hear. He points at the top right hand side of the creature card in Frank’s hand, pulling another out of his fingers to show him the differing numbers. “See?”

“But I only _have_ forests.”

“So, just tap four forests.” Gerard whispers back, reaching over Frank to do it for him. Frank is suddenly overly aware of how _close_ Gerard is right now, his thigh pressed up against Frank’s own, leaning in close, his forearm braced across the back of Frank’s chair. “Done. So, now you can put it out.”

“Uh, I summon Dire Wolves” Frank says, feeling a little foolish as he places his card on the table.

“Summoning sickness,” Mikey reminds him, leaning over the table to turn the card on its side, “Gotta be tapped.”

“Now what?” Frank murmurs to Gerard. Gerard turns his head and grins, and Frank’s breath catches a little. He’s so close. _So_ close. Just, like, six inches and Frank could be kissing him.

“Frank?”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m _attacking_ you.” Mikey repeats, rolling his eyes

“But, I don’t have anything to attack. My Wolves are still sick.” Frank says, turning to Gerard for guidance. What a stupid fucking game.

“Gets taken directly off your life-points,” Gerard says, apologetically, picking up a few of the glass counters in front of Frank’s deck and dropping them back into the shoe box of spare cards. “That was _mean_ , Mikeyway.”

The buzzer for the inside door sounds before Mikey can reply and Mikey sighs, rolling his chair back until he can see the little viewing screen on the intercom phone that shows him who’s outside. “It’s Bob,” Mikey mutters, placing his hand of cards back onto the table, “I’ll... just see if he needs any help.”

“I bet you will,” Ray quips, and Frank snorts, giggling into his hand.

“I’ll play your hand for you while you’re gone,” Gerard says, stretching over the table to grab Mikey’s cards.

“Don’t you dare.” Mikey warns, already half way to the door.

“Why not, we’re boyfriends remember, what’s mine is yours.” Gerard snickers. It’s enough to make Mikey pause, perfect poker face in place.

“Touch them and I won’t have sex with you for a month.” He deadpans,

“Oh my God, guys. Shut the fuck up.” Frank says, feeling himself flush. “You’ll all stop mocking me sometime in the next fifteen years, right?”

Mikey just snorts, leaving the room.

“Say hi to Bob for us,” Gerard shouts after him, giggling a little as Mikey’s hand appears back around the door-frame, flipping them off before vanishing.

Gerard and Ray lose it, laughing hysterically, attempting to hush each other as they hear Bob’s voice get closer, creeping closer to the doorway, peering around the corner as surreptitiously as they can with Ray’s hair and Gerard’s utter inability to be sneaky.

‘What _are_ you doing?” Frank says after a moment, grinning.

“Frank,” Gerard whispers, gesturing for him to join them, “Come here, you’re missing it!”

“Missing what?” Frank whispers back, sneaking over. Gerard grabs his arm, pulls him close, pressed against his side, and all Frank can think of is how _warm_ Gerard is, how he can smell sweat and chemicals, and how his cheek, when he presses it close to Frank’s ear is slightly scratchy with patchy stubble.

“The epic romance of Bob Bryar and Mikey Way,” Gerard breathes into his ear, shaking a little with suppressed giggles.

Frank grins, pokes his head around the corner with the others in time to see a stocky blond guy wheel the body carrier in, pausing to say hi to Mikey with a shy smile. He’s too far away to be able to hear what they’re saying, they’re talking in whispers, obviously used to Ray and Gerard’s prying ways.

“Hi guys,” Bob calls down the hall, waving at the door. Ray and Gerard giggle, darting back into the office, throwing themselves back in to their respective chairs. Frank watches, grinning.

Maybe four months won’t be so bad after all.

*

Gerard’s late. It’s not hugely surprising. Frank’s pretty sure Gerard doesn’t even know the function of a watch. Frank flops over his desk, bored out of his skull. They’re behind schedule _already_ this week, and Frank, however much he loves his job, does _not_ want to be stuck in the morgue until ten pm. Again.

He waits a bit longer. They’re five hours behind schedule now and Frank can feel his blood pressure rise more with frustration every minute that passes. Fucking ridiculous. Frank stands up abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor. Fuck it. He’s a trained doctor, he can damn well do it on his own and Gerard is going to get a fucking mouthful of abuse when he eventually decides to show.

He pulls the body out of the body-fridge, not even Gerard’s illustrations on the door to accompany the sign can make him smile today, and pulls the file from the cabinet in the office. ‘Amelia Thom’ the file announces in bright red letters. Frank flicks through the paperwork with a frown. The death certificate is filled out and signed, but there’s almost no notes inside it. No nursing record, nothing. He shrugs, tosses it to the side and unzips the bag, checking wrist and ankle tags quickly and takes a deep breath. He can totally do this. He’s done it a dozen times by now. He totally knows what he’s doing.

Frank wheels the trolley into the theatre and shuts the door, switches on the outside light that lets others know that there’s an autopsy in progress. It’s easy enough to prep, though he fucking hates that stupid sling he has to use to get the body to the table, but the frustration mounts until he’s swearing beneath his breath, his movements curt and jerky. Fucking Gerard and his fucking inability to tell time.

The first incision goes without the body jerking awake and running away and Frank releases a tense breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. No problems. Totally doable. He sets to work, letting the calm routine wash over him until he’s working automatically. Cut here, remove organs, slice and dice. He’s not sure how much time passes until he’s startled out of his haze.

“Frank!? What the _fuck_?”

Frank jumps, almost severing a finger and he drops the scalpel in surprise, whirling to face Ray.

“Jesus. Don’t _do_ that. Almost lost a finger, dude!” He pauses, taking in Ray’s outfit. “What the _fuck_ are you wearing?”

Ray looks terrified under the bright yellow of a biological hazards suit, staring at Frank like he’s lost his marbles. “What the _fuck_ Frank? Where the hell is Gerard?”

“He was _late_ ,” Frank scowls, “I can do the autopsy on my own, Toro. I’m a qualified doctor.”

“You didn- _Fuck_ ”

“...Why are you wearing that?” Frank asks after a moment, voice quieter. Something’s wrong. His spidey sense is tingling.

Ray’s ignoring him, pressing the intercom button to the office with more force than necessary. “Mikey. Get the infectious disease people down here. Frank’s opened a body.”

Mikey swears with enough force that Frank can hear it from the other side of the room.

“It’s _fine_ , Ray.” Frank argues, “There was nothing in the file. I _checked_. It’s not an infected body.”

Ray looks really, really pissed as he moves to stand where Frank is, covered hands reaching over to yank the body bag off the counter, shaking it out to show Frank the giant red sticker plastered to the side of the bag..

‘ _Infection status unknown_ ’ he reads silently. Fuck. How did he _miss_ that?

“It’s -”

“Fucking hell, Frank. you’re not supposed to do autopsies on your own. You _know_ that!”

“I didn’t see it!”

“Which is why you’re not supposed to do it on your _own_.”

“It just says ‘unknown’, not ‘infected’,” Frank scowls, “It’s probably fine.”

“You don’t _know_ that. We have to treat all unknowns like they’re infected until we get lab results back.” Ray snaps, frustrated.

The door opens, Mikey in a matching hazard suit. Frank’s itching to make a comment but there are people with him, all staring at him grimly like he just cut into a live person or something.

“It’s just a warning sticker!”

“Yeah, you know what Frank? There was a fucking _reason_ for that sticker. You get a healthy woman who drops dead for no fucking reason and you decide to conduct an open autopsy without protective gear?”

“I’m _sorry_.”

“Mikey’s going to _kill_ you. Do you have any idea what kind of paperwork is involved in shit like this? Pete will come down and see you in the ward sometime today.”

Frank pales at that. “Is it that serious?”

“Pete or the ward?”

“Both?” Frank says, actually starting to feel nervous. They wouldn’t take away his medical license for shit like this, right?

“Frank, do you even understand this? You just opened a potentially infectious body in an autopsy room that’s not properly equipped and _without_ protective gear. _Yeah_ it’s ‘that serious’. Fucking hell.” Ray gestures to the two nurses waiting by the door, “Go with them. You’re going to have to be tested for every fucking disease under the sun. Me and Mikey will finish here.” Ray says, waving a hand at him in curt dismissal. Frank can’t help but feel a little hurt as he heads to the scrub room and strips off his scrubs, tosses them into a yellow hazard bag and finds himself hustled into the main ward. They sit him in a private room, seated on the bed as a parade of doctors come in taking every test known to man.

By the time Pete makes an appearance, Frank’s feeling a lot like a human pincushion.

“Hi Frank,” Pete says, perching himself on the edge of Frank’s bed, “How you feeling?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Frank repeats for what feels like the millionth time. But he can’t help the apprehension that ties his stomach in knots. What if Pete’s here to fire him? “I’m sorry,” he blurts after a moment of silence, “I didn’t see the stupid fucking sticker.”

“You’re a _registrar_ , Frank. Not a pathologist. You can’t do shit like that. You think it’s okay for a med student to practice medicine in a clinic? It’s the same fucking thing.”

Frank opens his mouth to point out he only did it before Gerard was late, _again_ , but closes it again quickly. “Sorry,” he mutters again, “It won’t happen again.”

“I should certainly hope not.” Pete says, then grins, the seriousness melting away. “When I was a registrar, I did the same thing, only I did the autopsy on the wrong body. Let me tell you, the mess _that_ caused-” he grimaces, “let’s just say it makes this look like a walk in the park. Well, y’know, assuming you didn’t catch, like, mad cow disease, or hepatitis or some shit. Then this totally wins out.” He stands, “Look, we’ll have to do a formal reprimand, but how about we discover whether or not you’re gonna die on us first, right? Try not to. Mikey’s already pissed enough about the paperwork. You don’t want to make him do the paperwork for a work-related death.” And with that, Pete leaves the room, whistling jauntily.

Frank stares after him, the little ball of dread in his stomach lessening slightly. That’s it? He’s not sure whether he should be grateful or scared, but he settles back on his pillows with a sigh, letting his shoulders relax. Not much point in worrying. Besides, he’s really fucking tired. A nap, then. They fix everything.

*

  
  



Of course, Frank’s body decides that the nice five hour rest he’s just had waiting on the bloodwork is the perfect time to come down with a cold.

He sneezes as a pretty nurse slips a needle into the crook of his arm, jolting the needle far deeper than it meant to go. “Jesus _fuck_.”

“You feeling alright?” She asks, slipping the needle out of his arm and pressing a cotton bud to the wound.

“Yeah, yeah. _Peachy_ ,” he mutters. He just wants to go _home_. He’s fine and no one will fucking listen. He stretches across the bed for a tissue. Ugh. Colds suck.

“Coming down with a cold?” she asks, picking up his file notes from the end of the bed and scribbling some notes.

“Probably. I’m always sick.”

She smiles a little at that, “Alright, we’ll try the other arm. Try not to sneeze this time.”

Frank grins, “Thanks-” he glances at her name tag, “Greta. I’ll try not to. I’ve been tormented enough with surgical instruments today.”

*

“Can I go _home_ now?” Frank whines to his doctor a few hours later. He’s tired. And _bored_ and his nose is stuffy and he just wants to curl up in front of the TV with his dogs and a cup of tea and watch some shitty cop show he can pick out all the mistakes.

Dr. Hurley raises an eyebrow as he studies the file in his hands, “Nope. Sure can’t. I’d get settled. We haven’t finished testing you yet.”

“I don’t think I have that much blood left in my body to test.”

Dr. Hurley decides to ignore that. “Your file says you’ve been experiencing some symptoms.”

“I have a cold.” Frank sighs, “I swear I don’t have, like, lupus or anything.”

“When did the symptoms start?”

Frank tries to resist groaning. This is why he never wanted to work with _living_ people. Stupid fucking questions. “About four hours ago? I’m fine, I promise. I get sick all the time!”

Dr. Hurley closes Frank’s file with a snap. “We want to be sure. You know how it works. I’d settle in, Frank. You’re not going anywhere for a while. Got someone to call to bring you some clothes?”

Frank flops back onto the pillows. His life _sucks_ right now.

*

He calls his Mom to go around to his apartment, cursing the fact that he doesn’t know more people in this stupid city and praying that he doesn’t have anything too horrendous lying around the house that would scar her for life.

“Frankie,” she says, bustling into his hospital room with what appears to be his entire apartment, “What _have_ you done to yourself this time?”

“I’m _fine_ , it’s just standard procedure” Frank says again, “Oh my God, why will no one believe me?”

“Now, I bought you some clothes, and some books, I picked up your favourites-” she says, unpacking the biggest overnight bag Frank’s ever seen. Frank has never loved his mother more than he does in this very instant “-but you really do need to clear out your underwear draw, Frank.” She continues, “There are some things a mother should never see. And you definitely need new underpants.”

Okay, and now Frank wants to die.

“And I’ve booked a hotel, sweetheart, so if you’ve got a horrible disease, I’ll be right here, okay?”

“Mom, I’m not dying! They’re overreacting!”

She fixes him with her best glare, “Now, Frank. The doctors know best.” She pats his knee through the blankets. “You just stay here and do what the doctors tell you.”

“I _am_ a doctor!” he argues, hopelessly. “I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, you’re not taking very good care of yourself, are you?” His Mom counters, handing over a pair of pyjamas that Frank’s pretty sure she gave him about five years ago that still have the tags attached. Ugh. He hates pyjamas. But with the way his luck’s going these days, he’ll sleep naked and Gerard will come up to visit him or something and it will be even more mortifying than anything else on the long, _long_ list of humiliating things that have happened to him in the past few weeks. so, he takes them, heading grudgingly to the bathroom to change, ignoring his mother’s exasperated sigh of “I’ve seen it all, Frank. I changed your diapers, after all.”

Parents _suck_.

He takes his time, checking his pulse, his throat, the colour of his skin. He’s _fine_ , he tells himself. By the time he emerges his mother isn’t the only one in the room. Mikey’s perched on the end of the bed, swinging his legs a little as he talks.

“Not dead?” Mikey asks, as though he needs confirmation.

“I’m _not dying_.” Frank’s getting really tired of repeating himself.

Mikey just nods. “Nice pyjamas” and gives him that little non-smile that Frank knows means that Mikey is laughing hysterically on the inside.

Frank looks down. Well, _fuck_. How did he never notice these pyjamas have trains on them. _Trains_. He’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake. This day can officially not get any worse.

“Hey, Mikey,” Gerard pokes his head around the door, “You- oh.” He stops, smile dropping from his face. “Hi, Frank.”

“Hi.” Frank replies cheerily. If he’s going to be stuck in this fucking hospital room for the next million years, maybe Gerard will come up and keep him company and they can work on the comic.

Gerard ducks his head, not making eye contact, “Ready?” He asks Mikey, scuffing his feet on the linoleum, standing in the doorway like there’s some sort of invisible force-field that stops him crossing the threshold. “We gotta go. We’ve got that... thing?”

Mikey rolls his eyes and Frank feels his stomach sink. He hasn’t known Gerard for very long, but the guy is a shitty-ass liar.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” Mikey hands Frank a piece of paper with his phone number, “I couldn’t remember if I’d given it to you. If you’re gonna die, let me know and I’ll drive down, okay? Even if it’s 3am. Just, like, try and give me half an hour warning, okay? I’ll come in tomorrow with some video-games and comics and shit.”

Mikeyway is the _best_. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” He turns to say goodbye to Gerard, but the doorway is empty. Frank feels a bit like he’s been punched. He’s fucked up. He _really_ fucked up, and now Gerard _hates_ him.

Mikey catches the expression on his face and gives him a sympathetic smile, “Catch you tomorrow, dude. Glad you’re not dead yet.”

Frank’s not so sure if he echoes the sentiment. Worst. Day. Ever.

*

It’s been a while since Frank has been in the position to remember all the shitty things about hospitals. The sheets that are always cold, no matter how many blankets there are, the way the food is always tepid and soggy, the mattress is like a bed of rocks and there’s no way you can sleep with the constant sound of squeaky shoes on polished floors. Not to mention Greta has been waking him up every fucking three hours to take his temperature and blood pressure. He knows it’s standard procedure, he knows why they do it, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying. Frank suddenly has a whole new respect for nurses.

By the time he wakes up in the morning, Frank will admit, he’s definitely had days where he’s felt better.

“It’s a _cold_ ,” he argues, voice hoarse, when Dr. Hurley comes by at lunchtime. “I’m not sick.”

“You sound healthy as a horse,” Dr. Hurley deadpans, “But, we’ve got some of the test results back. I’m pleased to say you don’t have hepatitis, syphilis or AIDS.”

“You tested him for syphilis?” Mikey asks, his voice even but his mouth twitching. Frank can tell he’s going to be mocking him for _weeks_.

“Automatic procedure.” Dr. Hurley says, “but some of the tests on Ms.Thom have been inconclusive, so you’re in here for a little longer, Frank. We want to make sure that nice cold you’re incubating isn’t anything else.”

Frank groans and leans over to grab the next comic off the stack that Mikey’s here to drop off. Fucking hospitals.

*

There’s nothing to do. It’s only been a day and a half and Frank’s pretty sure he’s about to go stir crazy. Hospitals are mind numbingly boring when he’s not the one racing around chasing patients. There are forty-seven tiles in the ceiling of his room. He’s had twenty three visits. Twelve from Greta, three from Doctor Hurley, a few from Pete and Ray and Mikey’s been coming to see him whenever he’s got a free fifteen minutes. Plus his mom has been in and out.

But none from Gerard.

Frank likes to think that he’s a fairly reasonable, level headed guy. There are a ton of reasons why Gerard wouldn’t have come to visit him yet. He’s busy. He’s got, like, autopsies and shit. And they’re down an employee now. Of course he’s just busy.

The lie sounds hollow, even in his own head.

Maybe he hates Frank now. Maybe Gerard’s so angry at him that he’s decided they can’t be friends anymore. Maybe Gerard’s gotten in trouble and Frank’s gotten him fired.

Having nothing to do is making him paranoid. He takes a breath, trying to be reasonable. There’s probably a good reason for it. Frank’s sure of it.

Probably.

*

By day three, Gerard still hasn’t come down and Frank’s arguments sound flat and lame when he recites them to himself.

“What is Gerard’s _deal_?” Frank demands, as Mikey drops a pile of comics at the foot of his bed that morning. “Like, maybe we weren’t best friends or whatever, but what the _fuck_. I could be _dying_ here.” He resists the urge to childishly kick the comics off the bed, but it’s a close thing.

“I thought you said you were _fine_.” Mikey says, catching the way Frank’s eyeing the comics. He sighs, scooping them off the sheets to move them out of harms way. “You dying is kind of the problem here, dude.” He picks up an old issue of the Punisher, waving it in Frank’s direction. “This shit is from Gerard, not me.”

Frank’s only marginally placated. “Well, why the hell doesn’t he give them to me himself? It’s not like he’ll get cooties if he’s in the same room as me.”

Mikey just stares at him incredulously. “You’re both idiots,” he says after a moment, throwing his arms in the air, “Oh my God, it’s like middle school all over again.” He picks up his bag, pulling out a battered copy of ‘Catcher in the Rye’ and tosses it over. “Also from Gerard.” he pauses, “Though I’m not supposed to be telling you that. Theoretically they’re all from me.”

“Oh, hey. I fucking love this book. How did he know that?”

“Idiots.” Mikey repeats. It seems to be his new favourite word these days.

Frank makes a face, “What did _you_ bring me then, Mikeyway?”

“The pleasure of my company,” he deadpans, hooking his bag over his shoulder, “Now if you excuse me, some of us _weren’t_ stupid enough to get ourselves hospitalised and actually have to go to work.”

“You’re coming back later, right?” Frank asks, trying not to sound too desperate but oh my _God_ , he’s so fucking bored. “Say hi to Ray for me. And Pete. Tell them to come visit.”

Mikey waves a hand at him, “Yeah, yeah. Try not to die before lunchtime. I have a fuckton of work already. I don’t need the paperwork for if you die.”

*

There’s not much to do in a hospital but sleep. Hushed whispers just outside his door wake Frank up from a restless sleep, and he freezes as the voices register in his brain.

“You can’t just talk to him? Jesus Gerard, _which_ one of us is supposed to be the older brother?”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Frank can just make out the mutter by the doorway, shifts a little so he can hear better, careful to keep his breathing steady. “He hates me.”

“Frank does not hate you,” Mikey hisses, “Oh my God, I will punch you in the face.”

“He should hate me.” There’s a pause and the dull thump of contact, “Ow! Fuck, Mikey.”

“Just be glad it wasn’t your face.”

“Look, I got stuck in this stupid fucking meeting, which _Ray_ made me attend and I was running late, and I forgot to call. And now Frank’s in hospital and probably has some horrible fucking disease.” Then quieter, so Frank has to lift his head off the pillow, straining to hear, “Frank hates hospitals.”

“He picked the wrong career then,” Mikey says, completely unsympathetic. “Look, you fucked up, Frank fucked up. You’re both fine. You want to kiss him and have his babies, so make a fucking move already.”

“He’s in here. Because of me. Let me deal with it on my own, Mikey.” There’s the squeaky sound of footsteps heading away from the door and Frank can’t help the way it makes his stomach sink, his chest hurt. There’s no coming back from this. He’s ruined all his chances.

Mikey sighs loudly, “Frank, I know you’re awake.” Frank doesn’t move. A few seconds later, the bed dips a little where Mikey perches on the side. “C’mon, Frank. I’m sorry my brother is a loser douchebag.”

Frank’s glad Mikey can’t see his face. “He hates me,” he says quietly, hoping he doesn’t sound nearly as upset as he feels.

“Don’t make me punch you as well. My hand hurts enough.” No response and Mikey groans, “You know, you both owe me about a million dollars in fucking relationship therapy fees. As a little brother, I should not be this involved in my brothers sex-life. Look. Gerard’s completely crazy about you, but he’s worried you hate him and he blames himself.” Mikey pauses, “Oh, also, you have an IV. They freak him the fuck out. But, y’know, if he was braving seeing an IV for anyone, it would totally be for you.”

Frank laughs a little at that, and if it’s a little watery, neither of them mention it. “They freak me out too.”

“Well, to make you feel better, I can give you some blackmail material for when he gets over himself,” Mikey offers, nudging Frank with his bony elbow until Frank turns and shuffles over enough so they can both lie down, crammed onto the tiny bed. “When he was in med school, right...”

*

“You can go home tomorrow,” Dr. Hurley says, glancing over Frank’s file. “Your test results are clear. You’ve got a cold.” he closes the file with a snap, slotting back into the holder at the end of Frank’s bed. “Nothing that will kill you. Probably. Not in the next week at any rate.”

“I _told_ you. Can’t I go home today?” Frank whines. He knows he’s being childish, he knows it’s his own damn fault, but this is fucking ridiculous. Three days in hospital for a cold is overkill. He wants his own bed, his own shitty TV, his own bathroom and books and _stuff_. He wants to be able to eat when he wants, when he wants and not be woken up every fifteen fucking minutes.

“Tomorrow,” Dr. Hurley repeats. “We like to torture you for as long as possible.”

Frank sighs, settles back on his pillows. “Fuck.” He hopes Mikey will be down soon, before he decides that perhaps jabbing himself in the eyes with a needle would be a good way to pass the time. Fucking hospitals are going to drive him crazy.

Like he’s psychic, Mikey pokes his head around the door a moment later. “Hey, Frank. Heard the good news. Congratulations, you’re not dying.”

“Awesome, right?” Frank grins. It’s not like he was _worried_ or anything, but it’s good to be reassured anyway.

Mikey tosses a book onto Frank’s bed., “Gerard sends you this. He actually said to say it was from him.”

The cover looks vaguely familiar. “Doom Patrol?” Frank asks, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. “Awesome. Tell him thanks for me.”

“ _Idiots_.” Mikey sighs. “Read it carefully. If anything happens to it, he’ll kill you.”

“Seriously?”

“Dude, not even _I’m_ allowed to touch his precious ‘Doom Patrol’. It’s a fuckin’ signed copy, man.”

“...Oh.”

Mikey just rolls his eyes on his way out.

Frank opens the comic carefully, the pages falling open to a middle section. There’s a little folded piece of paper crammed between the pages, Frank’s name scrawled over the front in Gerard’s messy handwriting. He picks it up carefully, his heart beating that little bit faster as he unfolds it.

 _Frank,_  
I’m glad you’re not sick. Come to mine tomorrow night? Seven? I’ve been a jerk. I want to apologise properly.  
-G

There’s an address scribbled hastily at the bottom like an afterthought. Hesitation? Or maybe Gerard had forgotten Frank didn’t know where he lived? Is it a date? It can’t be a date, right? Frank’s brain whirls with questions and theories and possibilities. It can’t mean what he thinks it means. Can it? There’s a little voice of hope in the back of his head, crowded with doubts, but. It could happen. Maybe.

*

Frank doesn’t think he’s been so glad to see his shitty apartment before in his life. He’s out of hospital, he’s feeling better, he’s got a fucking _date_ with _Gerard_ and he’s managed to get away from the whole mess with only a little slap on the wrist. Life is fucking awesome.

Mikey’s absconded with Gerard’s car for the afternoon to get the shit Frank’s accumulated in the hospital back home. Frank’s dogs bark, jumping up happily as he gets through the doorway, dumping his bag on the floor of the entry, Mikey following with another three bags.

“Hey babies,” Frank coos, wrapping his arms around his puppies. “Mikey’s been taking care of you guys so well!” Frank grins up at Mikey, “Thanks man. Seriously. For everything.”

Mikey waves it off, “Come to this fucking party tonight, for the love of God. And we’ll call it even. Gerard won’t stop _talking_ about it.”

“Party?”

“Yeah,” Mikey rubs absently at Mama’s head, “Gerard sent you an invite, right? In the comic? He thought he was being really fucking stealthy. If you missed it, I reserve the right to make fun of him first. Seven at ours. There’ll be balloons and shit. It’s a ‘we’re glad you’re not dead’ party. Gerard’s idea, not mine.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, I got the invite,” Frank smiles weakly, his stomach sinking to his knees. He’d thought it was a _date_. How could he have been so fucking stupid. “But, y’know. I don’t know. I’m not feeling too great.”

“You were saying you felt awesome on the way here.” Mikey gives him a strange look, “You were practically bouncing in your seat. It’s a party _for_ you, dude. You can’t pull out!”

Frank shrugs, avoiding his eyes. “False alarm. Might be getting sick again. Don’t wanna over do it.”

Mikey frowns, staring intently for a moment before relaxing. “Alright. You don’t think I could take that ‘Doom Patrol’ back? Gerard’s getting jittery. Not that he doesn’t trust you or whatever, but he’s acting like he’s trusted you with his firstborn.”

“Yeah. Um. I’ll just - “ Frank turns to go through his bag, feeling a lot like he’s been kicked. It was too good to be true, what the fuck was he thinking? Gerard doesn’t want to _date_ him. Frank pulls out the comic carefully, handing it over to Mikey who flips quickly through it, pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper.

“Ah-ha!” Fuck. Frank knew he’d forgotten something. He stands there, not entirely certain what to do as Mikey unfolds the paper carefully, reading the messy writing with a frown.

“You thought it was a date, didn’t you?” Mikey says after a moment, his voice quiet.

“No!” Frank says automatically, feeling defensive. “Why do you think I would I think that?”

Mikey waves the paper at him, “Uh, because my brother’s a _douche_ and didn’t _think_ before he wrote this fucking note.” Mikey groans, “Why am I stuck with an idiot for a sibling? What did I _do_ in my former life?” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll make your excuses, alright? But, expect to get shit for it on Monday. I can’t protect you from everything.”

“Thanks.” His voice is quiet, and he’s trying desperately to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Mikey snorts, giving Frank’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he passes. “You’re gonna have to deal with the guys on Monday.”

*

Frank’s resigns himself to spending his night curled up on the couch, sniffling into tissues and feeling like the most pathetic person on the planet, ‘Dawn of the Dead’ playing on his old shitbox of a T.V. He can’t believe he _thought_ Gerard wanted him; of course Gerard isn’t interested. He can’t date employees, it would probably be against some stupid fucking code. They’re good enough as friends. Frank’ll go back to work on Monday and everything will be fine and they’ll go back to drawing their stupid comic and making fun of Mikey and Frank will try desperately not to think about kissing Gerard.

He’s almost convinces himself, the knot of disappointment slowly settling into something slightly more manageable. He’s engrossed in the film when a furious knocking on the door makes him jump about a foot in the air, startling him enough that Mama glares at him from where she’s curled up on Frank’s feet.

“Frank!? Frank!”

More banging and Frank stares at the door for a moment like it’s tricking him. “Gerard?”

“Open the door, Frankie! Mikey said you were sick. Are you okay? Do you need me to call someone? Should I dial 911, I have the number in, I just need to press dial! Just, open the door!” His voice is high pitched and frantic, “Frank!”

“I’m coming!” Frank trips over his blanket as he stands, wrapping it around his shoulders and wishing he was wearing socks as he heads over to the door hesitating for a moment before unlocking it.

Before he can step back, the door flings open, sending Frank staggering, and Gerard’s there in an instant, steadying him, “Dizzy spell?” he asks breathlessly, “Frankie, look at me -” There’s a bright light being shone in his eyes and Frank closes them reflexively.

“Wha- Gerard!”

“I need to check your pupils, Frank!”

“Gerard, I’m _fine_.”

“Mikey said you were sick,” Gerard takes his arm, leads him over to the couch, forcing him to sit and crouching in front of him, peering into his face. “How are you feeling?”

‘I feel fine.” Frank sighs. He should have known better than to trust Mikey Way.

“Temperature? Chills? Have you eaten yet?” Gerard presses his palm against Frank’s forehead, “You look a little blotchy. Are you allergic to anything? Did they give you any medications?”

Frank bats his hand away, embarrassed. “Gerard, I’m _fine_.” Fucking Mikey. “Really. I just had a bit of a headache. Nothing serious, I promise,” and because he can’t help himself, “I’m a doctor too, you know.”

“Oh.” Gerard sits back on his heels, “Oh yeah, I forgot.” A pause, “I was worried. Mikey made it sound like you were, like, one step away from death. He said you were coughing up blood and shit. And covered in boils.”

“You think he would have left if I was?” Frank asks with small smile.

“I... didn’t think of that.” Gerard says sheepishly. There’s an awkward silence and they stare at each other uncomfortably for a second, both suddenly realising what they’ve been suckered into through the evil machinations of Mikeyway. “Have you eaten?” Gerard says abruptly, “You didn’t say.”

“Um-”

“You should probably eat,” Gerard says, standing up, “You don’t want to get sick again. I hate doing autopsy on my own. It’s _boring_.”

Frank’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to respond to that, but he follows Gerard obediently into his little kitchen. “I don’t know if I actually have anything in. I mean, I haven’t been home for a couple of days-” He trails off as Gerard opens the fridge, overflowing with fresh vegetables. “How-”

“Mikey said he did some shopping this morning for you.” Gerard bends down, rummages through the contents of the fridge. Frank resolutely does _not_ stare at Gerard’s ass. “He says to tell you that you owe him forty bucks.” Gerard emerges with some vegetables in hand. “Vegetarian spaghetti okay?”

Frank just nods, watching mutely as Gerard moves around his kitchen. “I, uh, didn’t know you could cook,.”

“I can’t.” Gerard flashes a grin at him over his shoulder, “this is the only thing I can make. I’m glad you like spaghetti. I’d have been fucked if you said no.”

“Would have been toast instead.”

“Or Chinese takeout,” Gerard agrees as he fills a saucepan full of water

Gerard waits until the water is boiling on the stove before he asks, haltingly. “Frank? Why didn’t you come to the party? Really.”

Frank can feel his face flush and he shrugs, “I told you. Just... y’know, not feeling well.”

“You seem okay.” Gerard points out, not quite meeting Frank’s eyes, focusing on the boiling water with more attention than it requires. “Were you trying to avoid me?” Then quickly, rushed like he’s got to get the words out before he regrets it, “It’s okay if you are, I mean, I’d probably be angry too.”

“Angry?” Frank just stares at him, bewildered, “Why would I be angry at you?”

“You got sick, Frank. You could have died. What if that body had, like, HIV or CJD and-”

“I’m _fine_ , Gerard. It was my own stupid fault.” He pauses. “Wait. I thought you were avoiding _me_.”

“I was.” Gerard looks bewildered. “I thought you were angry at me.”

“I was angrier that you didn’t visit me.” Frank mutters, feeling the flush crawl up his neck.

“Yeah?” Gerard’s blushing too.

“Yeah.” Frank doesn’t know what’s happening here, butterflies in his stomach fluttering a little and it feels a bit too much like dangerous territory. He clears his throat, “Um. Is there anything you want me to do?”

“Don’t get your cooties on the food?”

Frank holds his hands up in surrender, “Alright, I won’t touch anything, Masterchef. But I offered!”

There’s five minutes of silence as Gerard chops up some vegetables, throwing them in the pan with a can of crushed tomatoes. “So it was really just that you were sick?”

“Yeah. Course.” Frank grits his teeth against the lie.

“Mikey said-” Gerard hesitated before foraging on, “Just before I left. Mikey said you thought it was a date. And that’s why you were sick.”

Fucking Mikey. Frank puts on his best game face, “That’s weird,” he says after a moment. “I wonder why he thought that.”

“Did you?”

Frank tries to quell the rising panic in his voice, “No way. Definitely not. Your note was definitely crystal clear. Party, not date.”

“Well.” Gerard looks about the same shade of red as the pasta sauce he’s stirring, “Well, then what would you say if it was? I mean, hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically? Like, if you hypothetically asked me on a date?” Frank’s heart feels like it’s beating about a million miles an hour, his mouth dry. “You want to know what _I’d_ say, if _you_ asked me on a date.”

“Um. Yeah.”

Frank grins, Holy _fuck_. “Well,” he teases, heart thumping in his chest, “What would this hypothetical date entail?”

Gerard’s tense shoulders ease a little with Frank’s cheery tone. “Well. Um. Maybe... pizza? And zombie movies?” he starts shyly, turning to face him. The wooden spoon in his hand knocks the edge of the pot off balance as he turns and Gerard flails, hand reaching out automatically to steady it, heedless of the burning metal. “Fuck!”

Frank pulls Gerard back out of the way as the pot crashes to the floor, pasta sauce splashing across the floor, up the cupboards and against the wall. “Jesus.” Frank says, staring at the mess seeping across the floor, “Well, I think that’s dinner out.” He grins, looks over at Gerard, his face falling at the way Gerard’s clutching his hand to his chest. “Gerard?” He drags him over to the sink, turning the cold tap on quickly and shoving Gerard’s hand beneath it. “God, are you okay?”

“Just a little burn,” Gerard says, his voice tight. “Fucking hell, that hurts like a bitch.”

“You’re a hazard in the kitchen, huh? Good to know.” Gerard just grins at him, and Frank flushes, over-aware of how close they are, pressed together in front the sink, Frank’s fingers curled around Gerard’s, keeping his hand under the running water. “Um-”

“So. About that date?” Gerard murmurs, curling his wet fingers around Frank’s the best he can under the running water.

And Frank can’t _help_ it, pressed tightly against this ridiculous man who’s sweet and confusing and has just destroyed his kitchen and Frank hitches a little laugh and presses forward until he can reach up with his spare hand and yank their mouths together. There’s a moment of uncertainty - those few seconds where everything seems to be paused, brains processing, before Gerard kisses back, hesitant and unsure like he thinks that after all this, he might still be rejected.

Gerard makes a little noise in the back of his throat, encouraging, tilting his head and parting his lips and Frank takes it for the invitation it is, kissing him harder, more sure of what’s happening; Gerard’s fingers twined with his under cold water and the other curling around his hip, tugging him closer and kissing until they’re breathless and giddy, grinning stupidly at each other.

Gerard smiles, rests his forehead against Frank’s, sweet and close. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I destroyed your kitchen.”

“Destruction of the kitchen is a nightly occurrence here,” Frank assures him. He takes a chance, feeling brave and overwhelmingly happy. “So... D’you want to order pizza and watch zombie movies instead?”

Gerard laughs, tugs Frank a little bit closer, “Frank, are you asking _me_ out on a date?”

“Well,” Frank pretends to consider this, “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Gerard agrees, leaning forward to kiss him again.

  
THE END  


 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Faint of Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/463513) by [draconic_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/draconic_girl/pseuds/draconic_girl)




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